About birthdays and realisations
by GirlWhoLoved
Summary: It's Sherlock's 37th birthday and even though the detective has been away for 3 years now, John has not forgotten. He also tells the detective about something he has realised, hoping he'll get an answer someday if the man returns. Mild Johnlock.


**I've written this a while ago and found it yesterday. I thought it would be a nice little one-shot so here it is. I hope you like it!**

~...~

John felt strange with the red roses in his hands. He walked across the graveyard to his best friend's grave. It was already fairly cold, but what do you expect from October?

When he reached the black headstone with the golden engraving, he just stood there for a while. It hurt so much to see his name engraved on a tombstone. It just wasn't right.

Without him noticing, tears streamed down John's face.

A while he just stood there, crying, the roses still in his hands. It had taken him a while to realise he loved the now dead man. But it was too late. Or was it? John still believed that Sherlock wasn't dead. He just _couldn't_.

Sherlock had been the most intelligent man he knew. He couldn't just have committed suicide.

He wasn't a fraud!

Then John slowly knelt in front of the grave and laid the roses on it.

"Happy 37th birthday, Sherlock. I hope, no, I know you're still somewhere out there. Please, come back. I miss you, so does Mrs Hudson. About Mycroft… well, I haven't seen him much in the last three years."

John stood there for another while before he left. It had begun to rain and when John returned to 221B Baker Street, he was soaking wet. He still lived there, he just couldn't leave. He knew that it probably had hurt him more than necessary but everything else had seemed a betrayal of his friend.

When he had taken a hot shower, he sat down on the sofa on which Sherlock had sat so often, complaining about his boredom.

John smiled sadly and took out his mobile. He wrote, like so often, a message to Sherlock.

[7/10/2015 14:17:12] Happy Birthday, Sherlock. I've just been to your grave and left flowers there.

[7/10/2015 14:19:46] Please, come back. It's been more than three years now. I miss you.

[7/10/2015 14:26:29] I still write these. I don't think that's a good sign. Or is it? I don't know.

[7/10/2015 14:39:16] Sherlock, I realised I love you a few days ago. Why didn't I realise that earlier?

[7/10/2015 15:06:38] What would you've done if you had known back then?

[7/10/2015 15:09:28] Or have you known before even I knew?!

[7/10/2015 17:45:56] Moriarty's dead. Why don't you come back? I know you're alive.

[7/10/2015 17:51:32] Well, I hope you're alive. I can't tell for sure. Can you even fake your suicide?

[7/10/2015 17:59:14] Your birthday and the day you jumped are the worst.

John put away his phone and just sat there, not knowing what to do with himself. There were days when it felt as if his heart was in shards, just like the days and weeks following the jump. Then there were days when he felt numb inside, as if he was dead. He didn't know which days he preferred. The numb days were of course more comfortable, but on the sad days he at least felt something, even if it was just sadness.

After months of trying to make him the John he had been, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and Molly had given up. There were still feeble attempts of trying to make him feel better, but John knew the only thing that could restore him was Sherlock Holmes. John hadn't noticed when he had become so dependent on the consulting detective, but it was how it was and John was pretty certain nobody could ever change that. Maybe it had become that way when he had fallen in love with the man. This was another thing he hadn't noticed until after his death. Or was Sherlock dead?

He wanted to believe he wasn't, it would be cruelly unfair if he was. At least to him.

Sometimes John woke up at night hearing the screeching of the violin. He stormed down to tell Sherlock he should stop it because there were people in the flat who wanted to sleep.

It was only that Sherlock never was there.

When John had searched the flat like a maniac, looking in every tiny corner, he eventually broke down crying on the floor.

Sherlock was gone.

He wouldn't return in spite of however much John tried to convince himself that Sherlock wasn't.

Sometimes Mrs Hudson woke him in the morning, kneeling next to him despite her bad hip. Her eyes swam with sadness on those occasions and she only said, "I miss him too."

John usually asked, "Is it going to be easier eventually?"

"Maybe, maybe not. I don't know."

Then they spent a bit time on the floor in silence till John would stand up, excusing himself to work, not without helping Mrs Hudson up, of course.

John was scared of what would happen when Mrs Hudson wouldn't be there anymore and Sherlock still hadn't returned. He wasn't sure if he would manage all this alone.

"Sherlock, come back, please," John whispered into the darkness.

[7/10/2015 18:23:18] I hate you.

[7/10/2015 18:26:58] No, I don't. Come back.

[7/10/2015 18:35:47] Your absence is killing me.

John decided to get something from the Chinese takeaway. The one he had always been with Sherlock to. When he arrived there he remembered why he had avoided it for so long.

So many memories of Sherlock.

He almost ran out of the takeaway, earning disapproving glances of other people. He didn't notice where he was going, until he was standing in front of Sherlock's grave again (without the food, he had eaten a few bites and then hadn't had appetite anymore).

The roses were gone.

Who had taken them?

Suddenly John started crying again. He couldn't take this anymore.

And in this moment John made a decision: On the next anniversary of Sherlock's fall he wouldn't stand where he had stood the day that Sherlock had fallen. No, he would be standing on the roof top and then he would jump, just like Sherlock had. And then he would hopefully be reunited with him again.

If Sherlock didn't come to him, he had to come to Sherlock and that was that.

[7/10/2015 21:57:39] I'm going to come to you soon, Sherlock. I love you.

John sat down on the icy cold ground of the graveyard, stared into the darkness and listened to the noises of the city muffled by the trees.

~...~

John woke when he was gently touched on the shoulder.

"John, wake up," a familiar baritone said. John squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't want to wake. He wanted to savour the feeling of hearing Sherlock's voice again, even if it was just a dream. He rarely had good dreams of the man; it usually was Sherlock falling over and over again, Sherlock being shot, Sherlock being stabbed and so on. John usually woke up drenched in sweat and with tear stains still on his face.

"John, you can't go on lying on a graveyard. People might talk and I know you don't like that," the voice said again.

"Let me sleep. Good dream," John mumbled.

"John, you're awake and you can't really dream anymore. Please open your eyes, it's what you always wanted. I'm back."

The voice wouldn't give up. Displeased he opened his eyes and glared at the person who was interrupting his sleep.

When he saw the face his mind was racing.

It was Sherlock.


End file.
